


The Joy We Share

by FrenchTwistResistance



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, I just want caos to be a sitcom where hot middle-aged ladies kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-02-29 19:30:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18784714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchTwistResistance/pseuds/FrenchTwistResistance
Summary: Proprietors of funeral homes have certain responsibilities but often shirk them.





	The Joy We Share

Usually, if there’s an off-site funeral service, only one of them attends. Whether it’s at a church or a multipurpose venue or a cemetery or a front lawn (that had certainly been a trashy affair—ashes scattered in clumps in the ill-pruned rose bushes out of a red plastic disposable cup), a representative of the funeral home ought to be there, usually logistically, sometimes at the request of the family (as had been that front lawn episode).

That representative is almost always Hilda. Although the front lawn people had specifically requested Zelda—they had liked how blunt and gorgeous she was and wanted to see what she’d be like after she got a few beers in her but had unfortunately not been able to convince her to put the beers where they had wanted as Zelda does not drink anything out of a can and if she did it wouldn’t be cheap beer—and she had acquiesced only because Hilda had cajoled her with her very best form of cajoling, which had manifested itself that overcast morning as follows:

Hilda awoke at dawn and quickly slapped together a casserole to put in the oven. She then arranged Zelda’s dressing table with the outfit (that Zelda had worn many times before so she hadn’t been taking any risky liberties) she had thought would most amuse the Flemmings: a severe black wool skirt suit with an opal brooch and silver chained collar pin closure accented by a pillbox with a tiny black veil. It was a stately and era-less and very imposing ensemble. And that was the reason the Flemmings preferred Zelda. She was mean and bossy, just like their deceased matriarch whose life they would be celebrating on their front lawn in a few hours. Hilda genuinely wanted them to be comforted by the presence of her asshole sister. But she also found it so hilarious that these people Zelda had so much contempt for clung to her as a beacon of stability that she couldn’t help but encourage them in it just to irk her asshole sister.

Zelda rolled out of bed slightly hungover a half hour later and immediately ran a hot shower to steam scotch from the night before out of her pores. Hilda had ribbed her and ribbed her about this funeral and these people who inexplicably gravitated toward her and how she might find herself a boyfriend at the wake, how she could learn to like camo cargo pants on both her partner and herself. And Zelda’s strategy had come to her half-drunkenly—if she soused herself enough, she could be sick enough the next day that Hilda would feel bad for her and not find a way to make her go.

But alas, she had too high a tolerance for that strategy, and besides, Hilda had slipped her a few waters in between hard drinks and had tucked her into bed before the room had begun to spin and darken at the edges.

Zelda was letting the nearly scalding water beat on her trapezius with her eyes closed, willing her mind to go blank and neutral. She wasn’t sick enough to gain any sympathy, just more ribbing. She’d have to go to this ridiculous thing. She tried to prepare herself mentally and physically.

And then a small burst of cool air, a muted splashing sound, and cold fingertips on her biceps.

“You’ve been a sport,” Hilda said. “Not a good sport, mind you. But not a bad sport, either.”

Zelda opened her eyes, looked into Hilda’s across from her.

“They need you, Zelds,” Hilda continued, and she skimmed her fingertips down Zelda’s arms as she did so. Zelda rolled her eyes and shivered as she did so. “I know the satisfaction of knowing you’ve been a comfort and a balm is not as rewarding to you as it is to me. But because I value those things and I value you, I’m willing to reward you in a way that you appreciate.” Hilda's fingertips jumped from Zelda’s forearms to her ribs, began stroking horizontally. Zelda continued shivering but smirked, countered,

“That’s a load of psychobabble nonsense you heard on NPR. Just admit that grieving mortal idiots and my being uncomfortable in certain social situations turn you on.”

Hilda’s fingertips stilled at the underside of Zelda’s breasts, where they had been ghosting soft lines in deliberate patterns stacking on top of each other, inching up and up. She furrowed her brow, then giggled.

“Either way, this is the honor system. I’m paying up front.” Hilda’s fingertips regained their movements and then circled Zelda’s nipples, pinched hard. Zelda hissed out, just short of a moan,

“Up front is good. But down below is better.”

Hilda kissed her then, pressing her backward into tile, their nude torsos colliding, pellets of hot water engulfing both of them.

And so Zelda had gone to the trashy Flemming service with a smile on her face.

But now the Parkers are insisting on a memorial at Covenant Presbyterian Church. Usually, if there’s an off-site funeral service, only one of them attends, and that representative is almost always Hilda.

Zelda had volunteered to come along. That had raised Hilda’s hackles, but she hasn’t questioned it outright. Zelda sometimes did make an effort to be kind sometimes, after all. And she’d had a suspiciously foolproof argument, too: “That parking lot is an absolute mess, and your backing skills leave plenty to be desired. Hearse repair is an unnecessary expense.”

They’re standing at the back of the sanctuary. And as Hilda recalls how too casually Zelda had suggested that sunny morning that Hilda should wear her black sheath with the lace overlay (which was modest but suggestive for how snug it was and how the lace revealed and concealed in equal measure), she also fully takes in her surroundings and gets it.

Covenant Presbyterian has a gigantic pipe organ.

And Zelda is veritably vibrating as the skilled matron at the keyboard pumps a few pedals and pulls out a few stops. The bellows are working overtime, and the whole place echoes against the stained glass with peals of extravagant sound.

Zelda—like most uptight zealots, rigid choir mistresses, and general snobs—loves organ music. And even if it’s schmaltzy funeral music, if it’s played artfully, it gets her so wet.

Hilda should have known. Should have prepared herself or at least prepared a derisive retort. But when Zelda’s in ecstasy, she’s hard pressed not to follow.

It’s just past the third verse of “In the Garden,” and that staid lady at the keyboard is deliciously modulating to a higher key, and Zelda’s hand juts over to Hilda’s lace-covered forearm, squeezes involuntarily.

Zelda hasn’t meant it as anything but to steady herself, to share her excitement.

But Hilda isn’t into organ music. She is, however, into Zelda. And Zelda’s hand is hot against her, even over the dress Zelda had wanted her to wear. The dress Zelda had specially chosen knowing she’d be amped up by the pipe organ she had known about but Hilda hadn’t.

And that works her up more than anything else. Knowing that Zelda had planned this. Had manipulated the situation so that she could be aroused in the exact ways she wanted. Hilda could respect that. Moreover, Hilda thinks that’s so sexy of Zelda to take charge of her turn ons in such a concise, succinct way. Hellfire, she’d even worn the black silk underwear Zelda had obscurely hinted at.

Hilda sidles closer to Zelda and places her hand over Zelda’s on her own forearm. Zelda shudders, but her gaze is fixed on the woman controlling the organ.

Hilda can wait. She’s good at that. But seeing Zelda’s rapt face and taut lithe focused body, she knows she won’t be able to wait for as long as she usually can.

The reverend stalks solemnly to the podium. Organ is over. Time for different organs.

Hilda whispers in Zelda’s ear,

“Want to tarry in the backseat of the Cadillac?”

Zelda doesn’t even respond, just hoofs it out the back exit and beelines it for the hearse.

She doesn’t go for the backseat, though. She’s flinging open the back hatch.

Hilda’s hot on her heels, both because she very much wants to fuck Zelda immediately and because it might look weird to any hypothetical passerby for two women elegantly draped in funeral black to hop into the back of a hearse.

Hilda shuts the door behind her and doesn’t care about how stuffy and uncomfortable it is.

She’s soon on top of Zelda, knee at her center and hands in her hair, saying,

“Does calliope do it for you, too? Should I be hauling you to more county fairs?”

But Hilda’s lips are at Zelda’s brow line and then eyes and then ears and then jaw and then lips.

Zelda arches into her, kisses her. Zelda bucks her hips, says into Hilda’s mouth,

“Tacky.” 

She moans as Hilda’s knee connects again more purposefully. 

“But sometimes I like tacky.”

Hilda bucks her hips at that admission and bites Zelda’s lower lip. Zelda moans again.

“I need you,” Zelda says.

Hilda acquiesces. Because she needs what Zelda needs.

**Author's Note:**

> Together-as-sisters tumblr prompt fill: hearse; accidentally sexy touch in a not necessarily sexy place sparks some sexy times


End file.
